I think about a sentence for so many days my five o’clock shadow becomes the five o’clock news. Tom Selleck reports on the language of her arms. He reports on the peace talk of her toenails and the conflict around her fingernails. Oh, her fingernails. I martyr each one except for that pinky she’ll only paint black. I don’t stand a chance against black nail polish so I shave my head, antlers and all. Small hair and bone clippings flood my room. They’re soft and form an ancient city I lay siege to. Tom Selleck covers the story, while he is away I whisper sweet nothings into her pillow. My candy cane breath must work because minutes later she announces she is pregnant. We build our child a crib from eggshells and promise it extravagant riches. I say child, you will have limited edition rain, milk from comets and golden pigeons.